


Wings That Bore

by AchillesPatroclus (deansamcas)



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansamcas/pseuds/AchillesPatroclus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In essence, Patroclus enlists in the army and Achilles is waiting for him over the Aegean Sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the poem, 'Phases' by Wallace Stevens. 
> 
> I would like to assert that I am not trying to romanticise the tragedy that was World War I, but this is a love story.
> 
> I will also point out that I will try to be as historically accurate as possible, although this may not always be possible. If you are annoyed by any inconsistencies, I probably am, too. 
> 
> I was not planning on writing an AU but it was suggested and then I had a moment of clarity when I remembered the parallels between the Trojan War and the Great War. Stevens says it better than I can.

  


  
I.  
There’s a little square in Paris,  
Waiting until we pass.  
They sit idly there,  
They sip the glass.

There’s a cab-horse at the corner,  
There's rain. The season grieves.  
It was silver once,  
And green with leaves.

There’s a parrot in a window,  
Will see us on parade,  
Hear the loud drums roll—  
And serenade.

 

II.  
This was the salty taste of glory,  
That it was not  
Like Agamemnon’s story.  
Only, an eyeball in the mud,  
And Hopkins,  
Flat and pale and gory!

 

III.  
But the bugles, in the night,  
Were wings that bore  
To where our comfort was;

Arabesques of candle beams,  
Winding  
Through our heavy dreams;

Winds that blew  
Where the bending iris grew;

Birds of intermitted bliss,  
Singing in the night's abyss;

Vines with yellow fruit,  
That fell  
Along the walls  
That bordered Hell.

 

IV.  
Death's nobility again  
Beautified the simplest men.  
Fallen Winkle felt the pride  
Of Agamemnon  
When he died.

What could London’s  
Work and waste  
Give him—  
To that salty, sacrificial taste?

What could London’s  
Sorrow bring—  
To that short, triumphant sting? __

**2nd March, 1915  
London **

Patroclus's father was a simple man. To him, there were things that were acceptable, and there were things that were not. His son was fell into the latter category.  
"Conscription starts tomorrow." His father said gruffly, not looking up from his newspaper. Patroclus lifted his eyes from his book, glasses sliding down his nose.  
"I know, Father." He replied, eyes flitting back to his book.  
"And I suppose you have not come to your senses?"  
Patroclus shook his head absently, thoughts trained on the words before him.  
"Look at me when I address you, boy!" His father shouted, getting to his feet. Patroclus startled as enraged eyes bore down into his. "You have been a disappointment to me your entire life. Weak. Useless. Unworthy. Your head buried in those books and mind constantly wandering. Twenty years old and no prospect of a wife! How it has eaten away at me over the years, to have a son shame me so."  
Patroclus said nothing. It was a speech he knew by heart. The onslaught continued.  
"And now," the words were spat down as if his father was disgusted by their taste, "You have an opportunity to redeem yourself. Join the army, serve your country and Queen. And what do you decide?"  
His father stopped, seemingly choking on the very idea Patroclus had proposed days prior.  
"An army doctor!" He finally spluttered, before retreating to an armchair, evidently overcome with agony.  
Patroclus sighed deeply.  
"Father." He began softly, so as not to aggravate the man further, "You know as well as I that the battlefield is no place for me. I could serve my country far better with my knowledge than by fighting."  
"You are pathetic. Cowardly." came the revolted reply.  
Patroclus felt his fingers clench.  
"I am not a coward," He growled angrily, "I am not afraid for myself. Who cares if I live or die? I know that you, my own father, do not."  
Patroclus waited with bated breath for a rebuttal, half expecting his father to disagree. I would care, my son.  
The air rang clear with debilitating silence, and Patroclus cleared his throat, blinking back the searing of tears.  
“I will not kill. No man will die by my hand. I would save them if I could. I will.” Patroclus’s voice shook with feeling. They sat for a moment, with naught save the huff of furious breaths, until Patroclus rose to his feet and stormed from the room. 

The following day Patroclus rose early, dressed and slipped from the house. The air was crisp and cool outside, and he drew the coat of his collar tight around his throat. The soles of his shoes tapped on the stone ground as he weaved his way through the deserted streets of the city he now barely recognised. Already the effects of the war were evident on the face of London and its people. It was a desolate scene, with grey clouds looming over, shops windows shut and the wind rattling their panes. As he turned a corner, Patroclus could see a large number of men milling around. Finding some sort of line, Patroclus joined the end. As he stood shivering in the bitter cold, he watched the faces of the men around him. Many were younger than he, their faces still plump with youth and brightened with excitement. It was an honour to serve in the war. An adventure, with foretold promises of grandeur. Patroclus was doubtful. Already news had returned from afar of casualties. It was easy to lose a man in a number, but Patroclus grieved for the individual. If I can save just one man, he thought, I will have served a purpose.  
The line moved achingly slowly but eventually it was his turn.  
“Next!”  
Patroclus stepped forward, standing before the man seated a table. The man was old and bearded, dressed in army uniform. He eyed Patroclus up and down.  
“A bit scrawny.” He noted in distaste. “Name!” He barked.  
“Dr Patroclus Menotiades.” He offered nervously.  
The man scribbled it down on a form. “Doctor, ey?” He stroked his beard. “That is good. We are in need of more medical services.”  
Patroclus breathed a sigh of relief.  
“Date of Birth?”  
Patroclus told him, and answered all further questions obediently. The process was complete in less that five minutes. The man handed him a piece of paper.  
“This is your conscription notice. You will be assigned to the 52nd Division and should await information regarding when and where your services will be required.”  
Patroclus nodded his thanks, shaking the hand extended to him.  
“Welcome to the army.” The man said grimly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is surprisingly difficult and slow going. Don't know how I feel about this chapter, but let me know how you do?

June, 1915  
Aegean Sea

Gallipoli, they called it. To Patroclus, it felt a world away, though they were just days from landing, but then, so did home.  
Patroclus had done what research he could before leaving England for the unknown of war. He had read enough to be thoroughly familiar with the geography of Turkey. He learned of the Ancient War of Troy fought in the name of greed and pride. Perhaps this war wasn’t so different.

The spark of excitement had faded from the eyes of his companions, but Patroclus was hopeful. He was sick of feeling complacent while good men perished, his fingers itching to soothe and mend and heal. There was something drawing him to Gallipoli, and he had his suspicions that it was greater than the usual spoils. Patroclus did not yet know who he was and who he would be. Perhaps he would find himself in this war. 

It was the 6th of June when, at last, they arrived at Cape Helles. The landscape was devastatingly beautiful. Golden sands and grassy hills shaped by the harsh winds of the Dardanelles, but Patroclus knew that the beauty hid a myriad of evils he had yet to be subjected to.  
They hit the shore with a jolt that sent Patroclus surging forward. Getting shakily to his feet, he peered over the edge of the boat. The sand below was a colour Patroclus had only dreamed of; searing yellow, as if each grain was hewn from sunlight. He had not known beaches such as this in England.  
When finally they disembarked, Patroclus’s feet stumbled over said sand. They sunk into the heat, and for a moment Patroclus was disoriented. It was as if he was being eaten by the earth, pulled down into the depths. A man to his right laughed.  
“Alright there, sea legs?”  
Patroclus smiled without a word, wrenching his feet from the sand and following the other men towards harder ground. The beach was swarming with men. Patroclus felt bare in just regulation uniform as he eyed the rifles and solid helmets of the soldiers he passed. Their faces were haggard and lined with exhaustion and dirt, their gazes distant and devoid of emotion. Indeed, the latest arrival of troops was no great cause of relief; they were losing the battle to the Turks, and badly. Already they had been driven back onto the beach, and a single division of new arrivals was no guarantee of change.  
Through the crowds of men and supplies being unloaded, Patroclus sought out a familiar face.  
“Major!” He called out, and the man turned from his watch of the assembling troops.  
“Ah, Menotiades.” Major Odysseus greeted him. He had taken a liking to Patroclus during the journey, and Patroclus had respect for the older man. He was an imposing figure, not so much for his physique, but for his cunning intelligence and ability to rally good spirits. Odysseus the Eloquent, he was affectionately called by his troops.  
“A magnificent sight, is it not?”  
Patroclus inclined his head.  
“That is one word to describe it.” He said, standing beside the Major to observe the unfolding scene. Organised chaos, was an oxymoron that came to mind.  
“Perfect time to arrive, too. A ceasefire. Things are looking promising.” Odysseus clapped his hands together in satisfying optimism. Patroclus, ever the realist, was not so sure.  
“The fighting may cease, but surely the deaths do not.” He quipped. He had heard of the horrors of life in the trenches, with men riddled by hunger and disease. Odysseus turned to face him with a grim set mouth.  
“Death waits for no man.” The Major said solemnly. “And doctors must do their best to keep up. Speaking of which, you must begin at once. I will ask an officer to drive you, along with other medical personnel, to the hospital that has been set up just a few miles west.”  
Patroclus nodded his agreement.  
“Then I wish you well in the campaign, and sincerely hope this is last I see of you, Major.” He replied. Odysseus laughed, slapping Patroclus on the back.  
“I hope so, too, Doctor.” 

The drive to the hospital was interesting. At least, that is the adjective Patroclus would later use in a letter to his mother. It sounded better than ‘terrifying’, ‘confronting’ or even ‘deeply disturbing’. For the ground was littered with bodies. They avoided the worst of the battlefield, but even from afar Patroclus could make out the slumped, disfigured shapes of corpses. Some were so close he could see their faces, some distorted in pain and some hauntingly blank. The air around them felt heavy. Patroclus breathed heavily through his mouth, trying to avoid the permeating stench of death. As their journey continued, Patroclus began to discern between the differences of soldiers. He easily recognised the Brits from their uniforms, and caught himself searching for familiar faces. He saw what he knew to be French, and Australian troops, and some others he could not place. And, of course, there was the enemy; the Turks with their crescent moons and vibrant red of their collars and headgear. Despite their differences, it struck Patroclus how similar they all looked. Death, it seemed, stripped humans of their individuality. These men, once filled with the vitality of life, now all wore the same ghostly pallor and glassy eyes. After a while, Patroclus had to look away.

At last they arrived at the hospital, if it could be called that, for it was, in essence, a series of long white tent held up with wooden beams. The scene looked odd, sitting isolated on the barren ground. As he got down from the vehicle, a nurse and another doctor exited from the largest tent and approached.  
“Welcome.” The doctor spread his arms wide, a smile gracing his evidently tired face. He was old, too old to be in the war. His back was hunched and the beard on his face was pure white. He wore a suit beneath his white coat, which was covered in streaks of blood. “I am Dr Chiron. I am in charge of this medical station. We are glad to have you, Doctor…?”  
“Menotiades.” Patroclus shook his hand.  
"I am Briseis, Head Nurse. Wonderful to have you on our team." The woman standing next to him said, offering her own hand. She had a kindly face that was pleasant to look at, and a twinkle in her eye. Patroclus liked her immediately. 

She led the way into the main area of the hospital, asking Patroclus about his journey from England.  
Drawing back the sheet of the entrance, she gestured for Patroclus to enter. He did so, and was not entirely prepared for what was inside.  
Rows of beds, not a single one empty. There must have been at least thirty beds in the one area, each occupied by patients in various states of disrepair. The air was thick with the familiar smells of stinging bleach and the tang of blood. 

"As you can see," Dr Chiron cleared his throat from behind where Patroclus realised he was frozen. "We are inundated. There are two more tents like this. As I said, we are very glad to have you and the supplies you brought with you." 

Patroclus gave a curt nod. 

"I am glad to be of service to you and these fine men." 

"And what experience do you have, Dr Menotiades?" Dr Chiron began to walk down between the beds. "I am afraid you may not be used to the injuries of war." 

Patroclus tried not to stare at the soldiers as they lay in their beds. Some were missing limbs or extremities, and most were covered in bandages. He informed Chiron that he was relatively unpractised in such things as gunshot and explosive wounds, but well researched. 

"Research can only get you so far." Dr Chiron reminded him, leading him to a supply cupboard in the centre of the tent. He opened it and pulled out a roll of bandages and summoned a nurse for a bowl of clean water. Handing both to Patroclus, he gestured to one of the beds. 

"This young man is just in. He has only a minor wound where a bullet scraped his arm. Would you be able to attend to him?" He spoke quickly. The entire room was in fact willed with a nervous energy. Time was of the essence in such a situation as this. 

Patroclus assured Dr Chiron he could and relieved him of the necessary items. The doctor smiled. 

"Thank you," he said gratefully. "I have another officer to look after but as soon as I have a free moment I will aim to give you some guidance." With that he scurried off, calling to another nurse as he went. 

Patroclus felt a hand on his arm. It was Briseis.

"It's all very serious business here, I'm sure you understand. I'll show you your sleeping arrangements later." She said, and Patroclus smiled understandingly. 

"Thank you." He said, excusing himself to approach the soldier with the arm that needed attending to. 

It was a simple matter of removing the soiled bandages, cleaning the wound and covering it once more. Patroclus worked slowing but thoroughly, as he always did. He kept quiet conversation with the man, who appeared to be in good spirits. He asked about England, and Patroclus's family, and Patroclus did the same. He finished the job with a sense of satisfaction. He had done something, no matter how small, to make a difference. 

"Dr Menotiades!" A shrill voice called from the other end of the tent.

"Coming!" He replied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a while and isn't particularly good, but I just got back from an Internet-less holiday. 
> 
> I am finding this story rather challenging to write, so please bear with me. Happy Easter!

For Patroclus, the war began slowly. He was given a brief tour of the facilities and had introductions made to all members of staff. He slept soundly that night, in the small, makeshift room that had been set up for him, after already having tended to four injured soldiers. He found that he cared nothing for the meagre meal of beans he was served for dinner, and the uncomfortable, springy mattress beneath him. At last, Patroclus had found his purpose in the midst of the chaos and destruction of war.

Patroclus’s first proper day began abruptly, as a nurse he had forgotten the name of burst into his room to awaken him.

“Dr Menotiades! Get up, quickly!” She cried, drawing back the cloth covering the entrance and bathing the room in light.

Patroclus sat up immediately, rubbing at his eyes.

“A truck has just arrived full of soldiers! There was an ambush early morning on the 400 Plateau and men have been shot and-”

Patroclus jumped up, grabbing his trousers from their haphazard pile on the floor and pulling them on.

“Lead the way.” He said breathlessly, slipping into his white coat and following the frantic nurse out into the morning sunshine. A commotion could be heard to the front of the main tent, and as they turned around the corner they were met with the sight of men heaving stretcher after stretcher out of the back of a truck. Each stretcher bore evidence of the night’s fighting. Immediately, Patroclus felt his mind switch into a state of professionalism and determination. He raced after the stretchers as they entered the main tent.

“Menotiades!” He heard a voice, belonging to Dr Chiron, call out to him from beside a bed. He pointed to a bed before focusing back on the soldier he was tending to. Patroclus moved at once towards the man lying on the bed. His eyes were screwed shut, his grubby hands clenched at his thigh, where blood flowed from beneath the fabric of his trousers. At once Patroclus called for supplies, and upon receiving them proceeded to cut away all covering the area of injury. It was a gunshot wound. Methodically he worked, pushing aside any nausea as he dug out the bullet from where it was embedded, cleaning the wound and dressing it tightly. He then moved to the next man, and the next, as each bed was filled, until at last he found he could do no more. Patroclus stopped moving, taking a moment to breath deeply, inhaling the scent of the hospital. The room was ringing with sombre sound; pained groans and harsh breaths, frantic instructions from Dr Chiron and the tap of the nurses feet on the floor. As the thump of his heart slowed, the room began to still. The atmosphere remained tense but a thin veil of calm settled over the hospital as the soldiers lay still in their beds. 

Patroclus felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Briseis. 

"Are you all right, Doctor?" She asked, offering him a cup of water. He took it gratefully, gulping down the cool liquid. It burned his throat, which had grown thick. Only then did he realise he was shaking.

"Oh, I am fine." He affirms. 

Briseis smiled understandingly. 

"It takes a while to get used to, but you will." 

Patroclus nodded, disparaging himself for a displaying his internal weakness. He prided himself on being a strong, resilient person, but found himself in a particularly trying situation. He opened his mouth to reply when all of a sudden the entrance to the hospital burst open and a figure strode forth. It was a man in full uniform. He couldn't have been more than a few years older than Patroclus, but he seemed to be of an entirely different species in and of itself. His hair was luxuriant gold, his skin smooth and luminous. Every inch of him seemed to exude light; he was the picture of radiance. He appeared untainted by war; a walking god among mortals. Patroclus was awestruck. The man marched quickly towards Chiron, chiselled face contorted into an expression of distress. 

"Well? What of my men?" He asked in a clear, slow voice. Dr Chiron lowered his head before responding.

"We have done all we can, I assure you, Major. There was just the one that we couldn't save, I am afraid." 

"Who?" The man demanded, deep voice shaking almost imperceptibly. 

Dr Chiron placed a hand on his back led him to a bed towards the end of the room, where a soldier lay, dead. It was the man Chiron had first been attempting to help when they had arrived, but there had been nothing he could do to stop his impending death. The two men stood over the corpse, both bowing their heads but out of earshot. 

"Who...who is that?" Patroclus asked Briseis quietly. 

"That's Major Achilles." She informed him. "The leader of this battalion." 

"Major?" Patroclus posed in surprise. "He can't be much older than you or I." 

She nodded. 

"His father is very senior in the army and Achilles, well, he's a very talented fighter. He was offered a higher position, but he prefers to physically engage in war and fight with his men, I hear." 

Patroclus observed him speaking lowly to Dr Chiron and could read the discernible distress written over the major's face. 

"He's quite the dream boat. You should hear the things the nurses say about him. Me included." Briseis murmured, nudging Patroclus. He gazed at her, wide eyed. She shot him a conspiratorial wink. 

"I only hope my men make quick recoveries and rejoin the rest of our unit." 

Patroclus turned his attention back to that melodic voice that chimed out as its owner walked closer towards him. 

"The majority are not too badly injured." Dr Chiron reassured him. "I will do my best to aid their betterment, as will my team. We are lucky to have a new addition in Dr Menotiades."

He gestured towards Patroclus and the Major's eyes followed the movement. For a moment, his piercing green gaze met Patroclus's, who felt himself freeze. It was barely a second and the connection was broken, as Major Achilles shook Dr Chiron's hand gratefully and exited the hospital as swiftly as he had arrived. 

Patroclus watched him leave with a growing curiosity. There was something enchanting about the man, something he could not put a name to but that had gained his attention and would not to relinquish it. For the second time in two days, Patroclus felt a shift within himself that boded of a change that would carry great impact. What, exactly, this impact would entail, he was yet to discover.


End file.
